When No One Can See You
by katybaggins
Summary: Deep inside, Sherlock knows that, no matter what people think, it isn't that he doesn't care. Quite the contrary. Sometimes he is concerned that he might just care a little too much. Whispers of Sherlolly, set sometime after Season 2.


_N.B. After lurking for months, I wrote my own little Sherlock drabble. It's based on my own view of him, so please read this with that in mind._

 _Thank you for reading!_

 _-Katy_

* * *

 **When No One Can See You**

He keeps a running tally in his mind. He doesn't tell anyone, because no one would believe it anyway, but he knows just how many people he hasn't saved. Their names are permanently stored in a room in his mind palace. He knows how they died and why and when and he blames himself. If only he'd able to think faster, seen the obvious quicker, solved it easier.

If only he'd been smarter. Mycroft always said he was the smart one and he was not. Maybe he was right. The fact is that the list continues to grow no matter what he does, no matter how quick he is. Even if he ends up solving the case, he can still lose if people die. Soo Lin is a reminder of that. The old woman is another. He tried so hard to save her, to save them both, but he failed.

He doesn't have to live with that kind of failure either. He would think that everyone would realize that he doesn't have to be a detective. Though it took years, he knows exactly how much smarter he is than everyone else (though he will grudgingly admit that Mycroft is smarter than him). He is not bragging, since it is simply the truth. It isn't bragging to tell the truth constantly about his intelligence. He could do anything he wants to do. He is a graduate chemist, and he could easily teach at a university or do research - "connect the dots" somewhere else.

Yet he doesn't, and he knows what that says about him even if no one else does. He could make more money in a month than some make in a year, but money, power and status mean nothing to him. They never have and never will. That is entirely Mycroft, and he could never be like his brother. Mycroft's goal in life seems to involve smoothing things over and putting on a polite face. He is the complete opposite: he doesn't care about what is "nice" - a ridiculous term - or "socially acceptable", he cares about justice and the truth. If he has to be "rude" to find it, then he will. Solving the cases for him is all about uncovering what really happened and ensuring that the police arrest the correct criminal.

Despite his true motivation, he knows Donovan and Anderson think he's some sort of psychopath - like he finds death a thrill and "gets off on it." He doesn't, not really. Oh, he enjoys finding the patterns and using his brain, since otherwise it would rot. He savors the excitement of putting all the pieces together, of knowing he is right because he saw what no one else did. Above all, he loves finding someone who tries to be clever and beating them at their own game.

But he is not a psychopath. Maybe his work would be easier if he was, because then he truly wouldn't care. Yet he does. Deep inside, he knows that, no matter what people think, it isn't that he doesn't care. Quite the contrary. Sometimes he is concerned that he might just care a little too much. And he knows what his brother would say about that - _caring is not an advantage._ He's right. Caring won't help save anyone and it would be a mistake to do so. It's a dangerous game he's playing, and there is too much at stake, too much to lose, if anyone finds out how much he cares, not just about the victims, but those in his life whom he can call friends. He is not letting his imagination rule his reason and he is not in the grips of paranoia. He only has to look at what happened with Moriarty to realize that no one can ever know again how much he cares. He has pondered the alternatives (there are about three that he's calculated) and none of them would be as effective as this.

So he locks any feelings he has in the dungeon of his mind palace and lets everyone think that he doesn't care. He repeatedly calls himself a 'high-functioning sociopath,' even though he is fully aware that he is not and there truly isn't any such thing in the first place. He's done _his_ research. But that pretense is easier than to try and explain it. Besides, they wouldn't understand anyway, because just like most people they can't understand anything that is so far removed from their own experience. Caring in their minds means wringing their hands and wailing on and on about how horrible it all is, as if people haven't been murdered since the beginning of the world. In his mind, all that is a waste of time. Caring means stopping the killer, but they never understand that. Their little brains won't let them and frankly he doesn't care what they think anyway. Everyone likes to pretend they understand him better than they do, as if he is a puzzle that they can solve. The absurdness of that makes him laugh sometimes when no one can see. He prides himself as being an enigma, and he wants to keep it that way. Of all the people he knows, there is only one who can see past his facade.

Lestrade doesn't think the same as Donovan or Anderson, of course. He knows that. Garrett (he can't be bothered to remember Lestrade's first name and it's amusing to see his reactions) may think he is aggravating like anyone else and it is likely that he does. By now he doesn't expect anyone to like him, which is why John liking him and calling him a friend shocks him. He has never had a friend in his life, unless he counts his dog which sadly he does.

But unlike John, Gareth might not like him either, since he often makes him look stupid - intentionally or unintentionally, though it is usually the former and it isn't particularly hard to do. Yet Gerald puts up with him because, without him, too many cases would remain unsolved. He _needs_ him. If he is honest with himself, and he hardly ever is, he likes being needed. He likes barging in, solving the crime, rushing out, and leaving everyone in awe of his brilliance. He doesn't think he'll ever grow tired of their dumbstruck faces or the fact that, after a lifetime of being rejected by everyone and treated like a 'freak', he is finally needed by someone at last. He can do something of value. Graham may not like him, but at least he needs him. But George doesn't see how the cases affect him either.

Then there was John, his.. _.friend_. John was smarter than the average idiot but he misses so much - because, just like everyone else, he sees but does not observe. John knows that after a particular difficult case - when someone has died despite his efforts, when Grant finds a corpse because he was too late - he stops speaking and his face goes blank. John calls it "shutting everyone out." Maybe he is. It's a habit that at this point is a coping mechanism, if nothing else. He has to have them or he will be even more restless than he already is. He has to process it all internally and deal with the facts of what happened on his own.

Before, when they first had to stop Moriarty, John told him that there were lives in danger, as if he doesn't know that and needs to recognize the obvious.

Of course he knows. He knows exactly what's at stake. But if he stops and thinks about it - really thinks about it - he will be caught up in emotion. It will hinder his logic, hamper his ability to reason, and then those in danger truly will die. He doesn't have the luxury of caring until the case is over. He shuts himself up in his room and it is only then, when no one can see him, that he allows himself to feel. His eyes will burn, his chest will feel tight, and the guilt will press down on him like a lead weight - dragging him down into places that he doesn't want to go, into the realm of sentiment and he doesn't need his brother to tell him that indulging in feelings is a waste. Yet he does anyway, because he is not his brother and never will be. Naturally, none of this _feeling_ happens when anyone is watching.

There is the only one who sees - _really s_ ees - and that is Molly Hooper. Tiny mousy Molly with her absolutely appalling jumpers and taste in clothes, quiet voice, and awkward ways. It defies logic that she can see better than anyone. There is nothing exceptional about her - she is an ordinary woman in London, like thousands of others, yet she can see through his mask and straight into his heart. She knows what he is truly like when no one can see him, she knows that he _does_ care - too much - and she is the only one. John somehow thinks he is a hero for what he does, but he is not. Not even close. He isn't now and he probably never will be. He is a man, brilliant and a genius, but he is still just a man as much as he hates to admit it.

Molly knows that, but somehow she doesn't mind. Somehow he thinks she'd care about him even if he wasn't a genius. Her love for him is completely unconditional and she has unwavering faith that he can be better than he is. She has never doubted him even for a second, not even when Moriarty tried to smear his name and destroy his reputation. She saw how he was sad when John couldn't see - and he was, he won't deny it - and was willing to do anything to help him. She risked her job for him and lied for him, and he knows he didn't deserve any of it after treating her so poorly.

He can't comprehend why she has such faith in him. He knows he can be rude, that his deductions can hurt people even if all of it is true, and that he can be just perfectly beastly. But no matter how he acts, she stays. She always stays.

And he needs her to stay. He needs the one who sees him when no one else can - the one who matters the most.

The woman who counts.

XxXxXxXx

The next day is the kind of day he hates above all else. Dull. He is completely bored out of his mind and yet he can find absolutely nothing to do or anything he wants to do. He doesn't want to experiment or compose or play violin or watch idiotic telly. By this point, he needs a case or his brain will crawl out of his skull. He looks on his email to see if he can find anything - even a _four_ would be acceptable at this point - but there's nothing. Absolutely nothing. Doesn't anyone commit crimes anymore? He growls in frustration, and wonders if there is any chance that he has any cigarettes in the flat. In the back of his mind he knows that Molly and John would hate it if he gave in, but he is desperate. He needs something to calm his mind, to slow it down.

There's a knock on the door, and it is Gavin with a case that he calls an eight. He doubts that, but it is a case and so he goes anyway. They reach the crime scene and it's a woman who has died this time (and from what he can see, just with a glance, is that the case isn't even close to an eight). He doesn't expect to be affected, since he's perfected the art of detachment, but he is. The petite woman on the ground wears an alarmingly pink jumper, her auburn hair falling over her shoulder.

For a moment, he can't even speak, let alone deduce, because all he can see is Molly lying there. And something inside hurts even though the rational part of him knows it isn't her and she's probably safe in her flat. He shoves down those pesky feelings as he's successfully done a thousand times and begins his examination. Soon he finds what he needs, tells Geoff, and leaves quickly.

He doesn't even know where he's going until he's standing in front of Molly's flat. He has to see her and know that she is well and healthy and above all - _not dead._ He knocks on the door, even though she has to be in there. It's a Friday night, and she is usually so tired from her shift at Barts that she stays in for the night. She is likely wearing her pajamas, probably with ridiculous kittens on them or some other sentimental nonsense, with her feline on her lap, watching crap telly with a bowl of popcorn next to her. Maybe she even has a pint of ice cream with her if it was an especially bad day.

The door opens and he's right about all of it, of course he is, even the kittens on her pants and the fur on her shirt. But she is whole and all right, so he doesn't even think of saying anything about it.

She looks at him with those doe eyes of hers, eyes that see everything about him. She can see right through him like he sees through everyone else. And yet he still cannot understand why she cares for him the way she does. It's a mystery, and he doesn't know if he'll ever solve it.

From the look on her face now, she can tell that something is wrong. "Bad day, was it," she says, her voice sympathetic. It sounds like a question, but it isn't. She knows. She always does.

"Yes." He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to.

She nods, understanding without him saying anything else. "What do you need?" she asks, echoing the words that she said before.

And his response is the same, always the same.

"You."


End file.
